


just as good as god

by meowcosm



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fantasizing, Implied Voyeurism, M/M, Male Solo, Masturbation, Office masturbation, Oral Fixation, Sexual Frustration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:41:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22455925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meowcosm/pseuds/meowcosm
Summary: Byleth uses weapons, he rationalizes to himself as he ministrates the faded callous on his fingertip with his tongue, strokes, continues to stroke, all for an impression of what it might be like.Byleth would want to do more than that.He's uncompromising.Another finger.-Seteth indulges in some less-than-saintly activities. Alone.Probably.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Seteth
Comments: 8
Kudos: 121





	just as good as god

Seteth is hard, so, so hard, his prick pressing tense and flushed against the fine cloth of his smallclothes. He tries to think rationally. To spur himself into some action, something against this, anything to restrain himself. But his blood makes demands of him, pooling where it wants to and spurring him towards something so sinful, so tainted, that Seteth can't find room in himself to abstain. 

It reminds him of wine, the first time in achingly long that he slips his fingertips beneath his waistline and runs them over his flushed and weeping head. It is good, like nothing else, and so frighteningly easy to indulge in. Experimentally, he goes lower down his length, then lower again. His skin is usually so cold, but here he's like fire, and touching it almost burns. Burns away at the gasping element of himself that's still restrained. The still-rational fragment of his mind, mortified by the prospect of staining his trousers with his release, begins to shift them down. All while the quaking lust which makes its home in the rest of him spurs him further into palming himself off like a desperate youth. His legs, freed from their confines, splay over the top of his hard wooden desk and provide him some anchoring from the heat and desire which bleed over him, bleed into him. He spits a name from his lips in time with his heated thrusts, as if a repeated call could render his desire fulfilled. 

_Byleth, Byleth, Byleth._

It's so much. He's barely salient at this point, just enough to slip a single finger in his mouth experimentally. It's his forefinger, and he tastes salt mingle with his saliva. Byleth uses weapons, he rationalizes to himself as he ministrates the faded callous on his fingertip with his tongue, strokes, continues to stroke, all for an impression of what it might be like. 

Byleth would want to do more than that. 

He's uncompromising. 

Another finger.  
The two adjacent ones of his left hand, his right palm fully in command of his luxuriations. He's muffled, now. The wanton little moans that escape his mouth now trapped, his movements become deeper, more rapid, hungrier. Thinking about Byleth's hand, his mouth, the subtle intricacies in the way he handles Seteth's papers for him whenever he brings them over. 

If Byleth was to do that now- if Byleth was to see him. See this. The idea hits Seteth, a sharp pang of guilt and arousal mingling together like blood and water, turning everything rose red and sweet. He slips his thumb over the slit- 

Byleth watching in his typical calculated awareness, taking in each carnal moan of his name - Seteth unable to pull himself out of it, so consumed by a lust so forbidden within the confines of the cathedral - gently removing Seteth's clenched fingers from his mouth and replacing them with his own, gloved hand working downwards. Relieving his pressure, the tense and stuttering coil in his stomach building up so heavily over the years. Divine and yet so human- his name is on Seteth's tongue as he comes with a violent shudder, spilling himself onto his upper garment. 

It takes a minute, and for Seteth to realize how cold the room is without him actively creating so much heat within himself, for him to recover from his half-lidded and heady state. Slipping out of his chair, he groans at the futility of trying to protect his clothes, something evidenced by the erratic white patterns which danced over one half of his uniform, and begins to remove it with jagged impatience. He might be depraved- truly depraved, and filled with as much lust as a beast in heat- but he doesn't have to live like it. He thanks the black undershirt he placed on earlier for shielding him, at least a little, from the draft that seeps in all the way from the great cathedral doors. 

Especially when there's a knock on his own. 

"Seteth?"

His voice isn't a whisper, but it's tender. Seteth can't decide whether to be mortified or aroused, and his body is equally hesitant to choose one. Not when Byleth's so close, so near to him, while he's in such a vulnerable state. But it wasn't like he knew anything about his activities, right? He could simply let it go unspoken. 

"I heard you say my name."

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading. feel free to leave kudos and comments if you enjoyed
> 
> find me at @meowcosm on twitter or @scribemallow on tumblr :-)


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